


Lay Your Hands

by BeautyInChains



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottom Rick, Come Eating, Come Swallowing, Dirty Talk, Feminization, Fingerfucking, Frottage, Hand & Finger Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Nail Polish, Shower Sex, mention of Daryl in panties
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:55:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23501185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautyInChains/pseuds/BeautyInChains
Summary: “You-you painted ‘em.”“Carol painted ‘em,” Daryl mutters, fingers twitching in Rick’s grasp.“Pink?” Rick asks softly, meeting his eyes curiously. Daryl shrugs, swears he feels Rick squeeze his fingers before releasing them and going back to breakfast like he hadn’t just been holding Daryl’s hand. “’s nice,” Rick says finally, “I like it.”
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Rick Grimes
Comments: 17
Kudos: 126





	Lay Your Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I am very new to this fandom. I just started binging this series when we began isolating 3 weeks ago. As of this moment I am nearly done Season 5, so please no spoilers for me <3 This fic is canon-divergent in that the Governor and Woodbury were not successful in their takeover attempts. 
> 
> I was struck one night with the thought of Daryl in nail polish, of it being something that he was always sort of curious about exploring, but never did because of his upbringing. Also, apparently my Rick is a dirty-talking slut? So there's that.
> 
> This is unbeta'd. Please do comment as I'd love some feedback on my take on this pairing. Or even just to chat about the show -at least up to the point I'm at!

Daryl doesn’t even consider it until after. After Merle. After they take down the Governor and Woodbury crumbles. After the first few supply runs and a sense of normalcy has returned to the prison. But as he stands in the middle of a dilapidated drug store, he thinks that if he’s learned anything since the beginning of the end of the world, it’s that after is not always promised.

Daryl had been a bit of a flamboyant child, not that anyone would know – his pop had beat that out of him at an early age, and then Merle, who had picked right up where their father had left off. The mere suggestion of a queer in the family, a sissy boy, a _faggot_ , was more than enough to get it upside the head on the daily. Daryl remembers the time Merle caught him in an old pair of their mom’s shoe. Daryl had been enjoying the sharp _click-clack_ of the heels against the filthy linoleum when the door swung open. It had slammed shut just as quick, Merle crowding him against the wall, forearm barred across Daryl’s throat. “He will fuckin’ kill you,” he growled, spit flying, “If he catches you, he will fuckin’ kill you. Get rid of ‘em.”

Daryl realized then he would have to be a lot more careful. And he managed just that for a few more years.

The next slip had happened at sixteen, when his dad found a pair of black lace panties wedged under his mattress. Daryl had lied through his teeth, conjuring up the story of some slutty little thing he’d picked up at the corner store, how he’d brought her back and fucked her so good she couldn’t even walk. How he’d kept the panties as a trophy. His dad had cackled, clapped Daryl on the back hard with the lace panties still dangling from one of his fat fingers and congratulated him on a successful conquest. “Now, don’t be gettin’ any ‘a those whores knocked up. It’d be real unfortunate for one of ‘em to get into an accident.”

His pop and Merle are both long gone now, and Daryl thinks maybe he should feel worse about the peace that it brings him, but he doesn’t. Daryl wonders what the others might think of that. Of him. Wonders if anyone has the time or energy or wherewithal to care. He supposes, in the end, that it doesn’t matter, because not one of them could treat him any worse than his real family ever did.

And so Daryl allows himself to look, chewing on his bottom lip as his gaze sweeps up and down over all the colors. Nail polish had not been a necessity in the apocalypse, he figures. He can have his pick. Hell, he could have a whole collection if he really wanted to, but he doesn’t want to be that obvious about it. Daryl's gaze drops from the wall down to his hands -rough and worn, dirt built up under the nails. He picks at the filth as he glances back up, eyes darting between a bottle of dusty rose and a crimson red. He’s so enthralled that he doesn’t realize that Carl has sidled up to him.

“Find anything good?”

Daryl almost jumps. _Almost_ , but he manages to catch himself. He flushes at the thought that he’s allowed Carl to sneak up on him. That Carl can see him standing there like a fool, ogling fuckin’ nail polish when he should be gathering supplies instead. He swallows hard, hands fisted at his sides as he waits for the ball to drop. Instead, Carl reaches out, a finger tentatively brushing over the pink bottle Daryl had been looking at. “I like that one,” he says, like it’s nothing at all, “It’s pretty.”

“You good?”

Rick’s voice breaks the spell and Carl turns towards his dad. “

We’re good.”

“Daryl?”

“Mmmhmm.”

“Right, let’s head out. It’s gettin’ late.”

They do head out then, but not before Daryl quietly pockets the bottle.

Daryl waits until everyone is down for the night. Until Glenn and Maggie have headed out for first watch. He curls up in the corner of his cell and takes the bottle out of his pocket, turns it over in his hands and watches the thick liquid lurch one way and then back the other. He gives it a little shake. It sounds loud to his ears, even though he knows it’s not, and he can’t help the way his heart beats a little bit faster. He carefully twists at the lid, a bit tacky with age, and pulls until he can get a look at the polish dripping down the brush. It smells strong, chemical. He doesn’t hate it.

The light is for shit, and he squints at the tip of the brush. Daryl huffs and tucks the bottle between his drawn up knees. His left hand is shaking as he places it against his knee for balance. He dunks the brush one more time for good measure before bringing it to his thumbnail and painting a broad stroke right down the middle. There. That wasn’t so hard. He follows it up with another, this stroke dripping over the edge of his nail and onto his skin. “Shit,” he swears, voice low. He tries to wipe it up with his other hand, but that just makes it worse, smearing the first line he’d made. “Son of a bitch!”

“You alright in here?”

Daryl jumps, head cracking back against the cell wall. It’s Carol.

“I thought something smelled familiar. It sure has been a while, though.” Daryl curls in on himself, self-conscious, but there’s nothing he can do to hide the situation he’s in. Carol nods toward the bottle still tucked between his knees, which has miraculously has not spilled any polish over onto his pants. “Have you done that before?” she asks gently. Daryl shakes his head. “You want some help?”

Daryl’s not really sure what to say, but he doesn’t stop her when she moves to sit on the edge of the bed and reaches for the brush and bottle. “You’re using too much, see?” Carol says, holding up the brush which is very nearly covered in the pink liquid. “You’ve got to brush off the extra polish along the side, otherwise this happens,” she continues, tapping at Daryl’s thumb. She uses one of her own nails to dig in along the sides of Daryl’s nail to clean it up. “Don’t worry, the rest will wash off in a few days.”

Carol takes hold of his hand, holding each finger with care as she paints a first coat, stopping to blow at the wet polish. Daryl huffs a little laugh out at the way it feels. They fall into a rhythm, Daryl’s fingers lifting into hers to be painted and dropping against his knees to dry. Daryl’s not sure how long it takes, but when it’s over Carol has diligently painted on two coats and Daryl’s eyes feel heavy. He swallows hard as Carol caps the polish and sets it aside. “Thanks,” Daryl says, quiet and rough.

Carol smiles and pats his arm, “You’re welcome. Give it a bit longer to dry before you hit the hay. It’d be a shame to ruin all our hard work.”

Daryl hums in acknowledgement as she makes her way back to her own cell. He taps his fingers against his knees, warm contentment settling in his chest as watches the way the polish glistens even in the dark. No going back now.

At breakfast Daryl gets maybe a few more glances than normal, but no one says a thing. Carl gives him a little knowing smile, which Daryl returns despite the heat climbing up the back of his neck. In fact, it’s all business as usual until Rick sits across from him at the dining table.

“Mornin’,” he says, “How’d you-“

Daryl shoves a chunk of jerky into his mouth, followed by a handful of pecans as he waits for Rick to finish his sentence. When he doesn’t Daryl looks up from his plate to find Rick’s gaze fixed on his hands. Daryl’s fingers curl into his palms. “Huh,” Rick murmurs.

“What?” Daryl snaps, perhaps a bit too defensively given the early hour. The longer Rick’s eyes stay on him, the harder he can feel his ears burn. He makes to grab another bit of jerky, but Rick catches his fingers in his own, thumb slipping a few times over the silky pink polish. Daryl’s heart thumps against his chest.

“You-you painted ‘em.”

“Carol painted ‘em,” Daryl mutters, fingers twitching in Rick’s grasp.

“Pink?” Rick asks softly, meeting his eyes curiously. Daryl shrugs, swears he feels Rick squeeze his fingers before releasing them and going back to breakfast like he hadn’t just been holding Daryl’s hand. “’s nice,” Rick says finally, “I like it.”

There’s something about the dichotomy of Daryl’s strong hands, tipped in a creamy rose colored polish, working his crossbow, or gathering the carcasses of rabbits and squirrels caught up in their traps, or curling around his blade only to drive it into the eye socket of a Walker. Daryl would be lying if he said he wasn’t a bit pleased at the sight, and it wasn’t long before he realized he wasn’t the only one.

Rick had taken to staring at him a little bit more lately. A little bit longer and a little bit harder. Daryl had caught Rick watching him on the third night as he disassembled his crossbow for cleaning. Rick had seemed entranced by the dance of his deft fingers, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. Daryl thumbed at his own before trailing down his stubbled chin, watching as Rick tracked the motion. He flushed when Daryl caught his eye, looking away quickly. Daryl had shifted in his seat. He wasn’t fucking stupid. He knew that look.

By the fourth night, Daryl’s about ready to snap. The heavy weight of Rick’s gaze follows him everywhere. It settles hot on the back of his neck, drips down his spine, and curls somewhere deep and dangerous.

He waits until the evening’s dust has settled, until everyone’s preoccupied, and Rick’s headed for the showers. He slips away then, the sound of running water like a siren leading him astray. Rick’s naked beneath the spray, water running in rivulets down his back, over the curve of his ass. Daryl lets himself watch a moment, figures he’s owed as much after all the watching Rick’s been doing. “You gotta stop,” Daryl rasps finally.

The muscles of Rick’s back bunch and tighten at the initial sound before unwinding at the familiarity of Daryl’s voice. Rick’s hands pause where they’re soaping his chest. “Stop what?”

“Don’t play fuckin’ stupid. Stop _lookin’_ at me all the time.”

Rick seems to flush a bit at his words, nods slowly. “I-I’m sorry, Daryl. Didn’t mean t’ make you uncomfortable.”

Daryl takes a few steps forward, letting his feet fall hard enough that Rick can track his steps over the running water. “I thought I told ya not t’ play stupid.” Rick turns at that, takes notice of the way that Daryl has closed the space between them. “You ain’t stupid, and neither am I.” Daryl hooks his pink thumbs through his belt loops and sure enough Rick’s eyes are drawn to the motion like magnets. “You want somethin’, you gotta fuckin’ say it.”

“Daryl,” Rick murmurs, almost pained. His chest is heaving, cock thickening up under Daryl’s gaze. “It's your-your hands.”

“My hands?” Daryl asks. He’s close enough now to be hit with the spray of the water. Close enough to feel the heat radiating off of Rick’s body. “What about ‘em?”

Rick shakes his head, working up the courage to respond. “They’re strong. Deft. You can tell you know how to use ‘em. I‘ve always known that, but when you…with the polish I, well I couldn’t help myself. You’re a hard man, Daryl. You know that? And seein’ you like that, in pink, it had some thoughts crossin’ my mind that I know shouldn’t ‘a been crossed.”

Daryl warms under Rick’s attention, his honesty disarming. He wonders if Rick’s ever considered that maybe Daryl’s had similar thoughts. But then again, maybe they wouldn’t be where they are now. Daryl reaches up slow, carefully prying the soap from Rick’s fingers and setting it aside. “Well, maybe they oughta be.” Daryl’s nearly pressed against him now, the water soaking into his clothes, Rick’s cock nestled against his hip. Daryl feels an answering throbbing in his jeans as he curls his hand around Rick’s jaw, middle and pointer fingers curling up toward Rick’s lips. They part, allowing Daryl’s fingers to sink into the wet heat of his mouth.

Rick’s moans on contact, a broken sound straight from his chest. Daryl pants hard, plastering himself against Rick’s strong body and giving a roll against Rick’s thigh. “This what you wanted?” Daryl growls, lightly fucking his fingers out, then in, pressing down against Rick’s tongue. Rick’s response vibrates affirmative against the digits and Daryl makes a soft sound. “Christ, what else?” he asks, drawing his fingers back, much to Rick’s dismay.

Rick butts his head against Daryl’s and stays there, grips at Daryl’s hips to hold him in place. “Thought about ‘em wrapped around your cock. What you’d look like touchin’ yourself. Thought about ‘em workin’ their way inside me, gettin’ me ready for you.”

“ _Jesus_ ,” Daryl hisses against Rick’s lips.

“You like that? The thought ‘a you sinkin’ those fingers deep inside - _ah_!”

Daryl moans, fingers pulling Rick wide open, splaying him apart as he rubs over his hole. He feels hot and tight and Rick’s cock gives a kick against Daryl’s hip. With a grunt Daryl presents Rick with his fingers, tapping at his lips, “Get ‘em wet.” Rick doesn’t hesitate to comply, sucking them back in and slurping around them until they’re dripping with spit. Daryl yanks them out, without ceremony, and slips them back between his cheeks. Daryl gives a teasing little tap against his hole before he begins to sink the first one inside. Rick’s body sucks him in so easily that Daryl’s head spins with it. “Not your first time?” Daryl hazards. Rick shakes his head, nips at Daryl’s jaw.

“Mighta done it to myself a time or two. Mighta done it while I thoughta you.”

“God, _Rick_ ,” Daryl groans, fucking in with two fingers this time, pressing in hard and curling, feeling Rick’s body go tight around him, “That it? That the spot?” Daryl asks roughly, curling his fingers again.

“Uh huh,” Rick pants, rolling into the touch, “Daryl, _fuck_. Ain’t gonna last long like this.”

“If I’d ‘a known you’d be such a fuckin’ slut for my fingers I woulda done this ages ago.” Rick all but mewls as Daryl readjusts, free hand fisting his hair, hip nudging against his leaking cock. “You gonna come like this?” Rick tries to nod, but Daryl’s grip is tight and he hisses instead, fingers tightening around Daryl’s hips so hard Daryl’s sure there’ll be bruises later. “I know, I know,” Daryl coos, “I got you. You can come, c’mon.” Daryl fucks in with three just as Rick ruts hard against his hip and then it’s over.

Rick’s body winds up tight, seizes as he cries out, cock pulsing between them, spurt after spurt of hot, thick come shooting up their stomachs, intermingling with the water still running over them. “That’s it,” Daryl whispers, letting Rick ride it out on his fingers, cock pulsing weakly with the aftershocks, “Comin’ so fuckin’ pretty for me.” Rick winces as Daryl withdraws, fingers falling to his belt and fly, working them open. Rick watches raptly, licking at his lips. “Get on your knees,” Daryl grunts out, cock springing free.

It’s red and thick and dripping at the tip, and Rick drops to his knees like a stone. It has to hurt, Daryl thinks, as he wraps a hand around himself, stroking himself off. His other hand finds its way back to Rick’s hair, jerking his head back. “You watchin’ now?”

“Uh huh.”

“’m close, Rick, _fuck_.” Rick’s mouth opens on its own accord and Daryl moans, fist flying, cockhead bumping against Rick’s tongue. Daryl takes in the sight of Rick on his knees, open and vulnerable, spent cock still pink and flush between his thighs, and then he’s coming, too. Daryl whines as his spunk wells up over Rick’s tongue and spills down his throat and chin, Rick garbling words of thanks as he drinks it down, eyes finally slipping shut in satisfaction.

Daryl pulls back, swipes at the come streaking Rick’s chin with his thumb and pushes it back into his mouth. Rick lets him, sucking on the digit like he might suck on Daryl’s cock, cheeks stark and hollowed. He releases Daryl’s thumb with a pop, grips at Daryl’s hips to help himself back up onto his feet. Daryl catches him beneath the arms and draws him in, noses bumping. “You good?”

“Knees’ll be sore tomorrow, but I’m good. Real good. You?”

“Real fuckin’ good,” Daryl agrees. Rick grins against his lips and Daryl can’t stop himself. He licks his way inside Rick’s mouth, moaning when he tastes himself on Rick’s tongue. Rick melts against him, tongue finding Daryl’s easily, making soft contented sounds into his mouth. Daryl breaks the kiss, biting at Rick’s lips, “We’re wastin’ water.”

Rick sighs, knows Daryl’s right.

They make sure the bulk of the mess they’re made is washed away before shutting it down. Rick laughs when Daryl, whose clothes are dripping all over the floor, hands him a towel. Rick clears his throat. “Not sure how you’re goin’ to explain that one,” he says, working the towel over his chest and shoulders.

“I ain’t gonna. Nobody’s gonna give me shit.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Rick waits a beat, blue eyes sweeping over Daryl’s frame, “We need t’ talk about this?” he asks quietly, cheeks pinking a bit as he wraps the towel around his waist. Daryl fights a smile against Rick’s bashfulness.

“Only thing t’ talk about is when we’re gonna do it again.”

“Is that right?” Rick says, meeting Daryl’s eye with a smile. “Well, all right then.”


End file.
